


Transition

by Junejuly15



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Season/Series 03, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 09:35:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Junejuly15/pseuds/Junejuly15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock looked up and fixed his eyes on John, his piercing stare forcing him to drop his gaze and study the intricate pattern of the lino. Before John looked up again he cleared his throat, 'Well, as I said I need to be off now.' -</p><p>A short oneshot - Sherlock and John, obviously</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transition

Extraordinary events have the power to change people.

At least that's what ordinary, boring people believe and what they never tire to mindlessly propagate. Obviously Sherlock would never simply rely on a saying, he preferred to make his own deductions, preferred to observe.

And right now he was observing John. Sitting in his favourite chair and adopting his usual posture, he steepled his fingers beneath his chin and narrowed his eyes all the better to concentrate on watching his friend. John was pottering about the flat, dashing to and fro, packing and unpacking things, and surprisingly enough, seemed profoundly relaxed doing so.

In fact, Sherlock had noticed ease emanating from him like lazy heat these last days they had spent together. Even his hair, used to military style precision, seemed to have relaxed, helped by a more casual and civilian cut effectively underlining this newfound ease. This detail noted and filed away, Sherlock let his eyes roam lower and settle on a pair of soft lips. Gone was the strain that had so often dominated them. No trace of awkwardness or of an indignant pout was there to be found now. A pout which had graced this mouth almost every time Sherlock had been socially ungraceful and had needed the help of a certain John Watson, his very own social radar extraordinaire.

John turned away, and Sherlock switched from concentrating on just the one sense, merely watching, to his full set of senses, taking in the whole of the tableau in front of him. It was like coming out of a numbing fog when he tuned in to John's voice and realised that he must have been talking almost incessantly. He still appeared very busy, chatting, ranging, organising, and ostensibly paying Sherlock's close scrutiny no heed.

'Don't forget to pick up Molly tomorrow. She'll be waiting for you at St. Bart's main entrance. And, Sherlock, please try not to stain your hands with those bloody chemicals you've used ... um ... you know, last week,' John turned to the shelf and grabbed another handful of books. 'Promise me, Sherlock!'

'I won't forget ... and of course not, John. I would not dare,' a mocking little smile lifted the corner of Sherlock's lips, but the smile had difficulties reaching his eyes.

John was oblivious to those nuances, occupied as he was with the one stubborn book which would not fit into his holdall. Under colourful curses, everything had to be taken out and repacked again - _Jesus, what is this? When did I bring all these bloody books or is this one of yours? It's not as if I had time to read any of those bloody things_ \- A bit of shoving and grunting and everything finally fitted - _There!_ \- John's tongue darted out of his mouth and quickly wetted his lips, always an indicator of agitation.

Sherlock frowned - _Interesting!_ \- A bit of nervousness among the sea of quiet, a soft ripple troubling a becalmed and frankly annoyingly boring sea. The slight irritation passed as quickly as it had come and John continued to range and Sherlock continued to collect - _Data, more data_ \- useful, superfluous, new, old, faded and colourful data. Something to dwell upon in quiet hours, something to pour over in long nights, something to hold onto in darkness. Details, snippets, nuggets of information - everything he could grab, everything he could find he soaked up like a sponge left on a rack, left to dry out completely, but now greedily filling every crevice until it was saturated and heavy with details. Details, shadows of details, impressions of the past and their life, slowly morphing into memories.

Sherlock blinked and quickly got up, his body forcing him into action, lest he should lose control here and now. John acknowledged him with an absent-minded smile, but nothing more, and then left the living-room. Up the stairs he fairly flew, his steps light and unburdened. Sherlock's feet felt like lead in comparison and his usually so graceful stance turned into something less appealing, the darkish, ugly grey of the lonely beginning to paint his every move.

A thud from upstairs, then a whooshing sound. Sherlock strained his ears, lapping up the sounds like a cat lapping up cream. His heart, usually so calm and collected, skipped a beat, making him stop in his tracks. _Too late_ \- his mind berated him - _Too late_. In the kitchen he heavily sat down on the chair in front of the microscope, trying to drown his thoughts in work, finding solace there and trying hard to cut out the happy noises floating through the dusty air to him. The noises of a man about to embark on a new adventure.

'Sherlock?' John's voice boomed cheerily from upstairs.

'Hmm?' Only a soft reply, but Sherlock did not care whether he had been heard or not.

'Can I leave some of the things upstairs?'

A loud bang, followed by an even louder _Ouch!_ , the exclamation mark more than audible. Sherlock snorted mirthlessly, he was not a man who enjoyed the hurt of others, but just this once he gave in to this petty feeling of glee.

'Right!' John bounded down the stairs again and entered the kitchen, a broad smile plastered on his face. 'I left some boxes upstairs, books and some old army stuff. I hope you don't mind.'

'Why should I? It's perfectly all right, John.' Sherlock said casually, careful not to look up and be confronted with John's happiness. 'You are taking everything from the living room, though?'

'Yes, sure ... that's stuff I will need. I don't think we'll be coming back soon, do we?'

Something startled Sherlock, a sting, like a needle piercing his heart, and he shifted slightly on his chair.

'Right, I'll better be off, then,' John worried his hands, unsure if he could leave just so. 'You will be on time tomorrow?' He asked and the moment he did he regretted the condescending tone. Sherlock flinched almost imperceptibly, but John, who knew him like nobody else, of course noticed this miniscule change in his friend.

'Don't worry, John. I won't leave you in the lurch,' Sherlock replied, his voice flat and carefully cleansed of emotions.

'Good. Not that I thought you would. I know I can trust you.'

Sherlock looked up at that and fixed his eyes on John, his piercing stare forcing him to drop his gaze and study the intricate pattern of the lino. Before he looked up again he cleared his throat, 'Well, as I said I need to be off now.'

On impulse John closed the gap between them and stood beside Sherlock awkwardly. He wanted to say goodbye properly, wanted to make this appropriate and maybe even memorable. But he did not know how and Sherlock was no help as he was staring down on his slides, ostensibly occupied. He felt John's presence next to him, felt the burning heat of his closeness, but he chose to wait. Finally John placed his hand gently on his shoulder and made Sherlock face him.

'Sherlock,' he simply said and then he stopped thinking and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him off the chair and into a farewell embrace.

They stood for a long moment, each of them pouring unspoken sentence after unspoken sentence into this embrace. Unspoken until now and buried for good with this moment. John was the first to break their embrace and turn away. His arms fell limply to his sides and his voice sounded brittle when he spoke.

'Ten o'clock, sharp, Sherlock. Mrs Hudson will bring you the flowers at nine.' John pointed over his shoulder, a gesture drained of all ease. 'I left your suit in the hall.'

'Give my love to Mary, John.' Sherlock said, his voice no longer free of anything.

He sat down again, turning his back to John, thus leaving him no choice but to turn and leave.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested in setlock pictures which gave me the idea for this sad little fic (and if you are not afraid of spoilers) you could go to my tumblr (see profile) and you'll find everything you need when you click the tag Sherlock Series 3! Thank you for reading!  
> Comments are always lovely :) JJ


End file.
